


Worst Kept Secret

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (minor hurt only), Everybody loves Merlin, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Magic Revealed, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21797419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Turns out? Everyone (and I mean everyone) knows about Merlin's magic.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 1259





	Worst Kept Secret

It's been a long, hard day's ride heading back from the Northern border. They've got at least another day before them, possibly two if the going isn't good, and Merlin's already sick of being on a horse. It's been misting fine drizzle for hours, so he's balancing on the fine edge of damp discomfort, and he's gone numb in places he'd rather not mention. They're starting to lose the light, and he's relieved when they reach a likely clearing and Arthur suggests they stop and make camp for the night.

Lancelot, the one knight with half an eye for others, offers to take care of the horses while Merlin gets the fire going. He accepts, pleased not to have to carry the full load of caring for the knights for once, and stacks sticks before getting out the flint. Sparks fly easily enough, but while the dry grass he carries catches, it burns out to nothing on the wet wood. When Lancelot returns, horses fed and watered, he's still sat in front of a stubborn, soggy pile. Only now he's got mud on his trouser knees too.

“Can't you just-” Lancelot wiggles his fingers with a significant look.

“No!” yelps Merlin. It might be freezing with the night drawing in, it might be damp, the wood might never catch without a little extra help – but on patrol with all the King's knights and _Arthur_ is not the time to be breaking out magic.

Not the time for non-life saving magic, he amends.

Gwaine drops down next to them. “Oh go on, I can't feel my hands.” He grasps the nape of Merlin's neck, and Merlin jumps at cold fingers beneath his neckerchief, batting him away. It takes a moment for Gwaine's words to register.

“Go on, what?” he asks stupidly.

Gwaine flutters his fingers just like Lancelot. Merlin stares at them; they're white and moving stiffly, but it's hard to deny his meaning. “A little boost.”

“Boost,” he echoes. “You know?”

Gwaine knocks a shoulder into his, and Merlin's own frozen hands lose their grip on the flint. He scrabbles for it amongst the dirt. “'Course Merlin. You're not that subtle.”

He's not sure what to say. If – if anyone else had to know, he's probably glad it's Gwaine. He doesn't seem mad, or scared, and it doesn't seem like he's about to reveal his secret, which is a mercy. Out in the woods with just Lancelot to defend him – it would end with the two of them banished, miles from anywhere. It would be fine, of course, he can get along thanks to his magic, but the thought that he might have seen the last of Camelot... he swallows.

“Maybe today I am,” he mutters. “No one will believe this pile of wet branches caught a flame. Even Arthur isn't that-” he cuts himself off as Percival appears at his elbow.

“No fire yet Merlin?”

“No, it's these branches – too wet.” He grabs the flint again, making a show of raining sparks on the pile, and sighing when they once more wink right out.

“Dry them out then.”

He looks up. It's easy to dismiss Percival. Large and strong, he's the stereotypical brawn over brains. But Merlin knows he's not actually stupid; that he can't think towelling off the wood will be of any help whatsoever.

Percival leans close to whisper in his ear. “With your...” he trails off, but Merlin thinks he knows where this is going, and groans. Not another one, surely.

“Mmm?”

“Magic,” Percival hisses finally. Gwaine stifles a laugh in his fist while Lancelot turns away, shoulders shaking. Percival's eyes widen, but Merlin just glares at them.

“No,” Merlin says flatly.

“But – Gaius said you did.” He's talking normally now, obviously aware the cat's out of the bag, and found two other cats already licking their paws on the home's hearth. “He was telling you off about it when I came to get my bandages changed.”

Merlin remembers Percival's injury; a skirmish with some bandits two months ago had ended with a slice down his left arm. It had bled profusely, but looked worse than it was. He remembers that conversation too. Gaius had been insisting he keep a lower profile, after he admitted to using magic in that same scuffle to deflect an arrow that would have taken Elyan down. He chuckles, low and without humour.

“Wait, you guys know Merlin's a sorcerer?” asks Elyan, appearing from the tree line with refilled canteens of water.

“_You_ know?”

“Oh yeah, I know. Gwen told me.”

“_Gwen _knows?” Merlin catches his head in his hands and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“She caught you doing eight chores at once. Might want to think about locking the doors with some of that magic.” Elyan looks up at Merlin's silence, and shifts awkwardly. “She swore me to secrecy first. Don't – don't be angry with her. She knew I wouldn't... say anything,” he trails off.

Merlin gapes, but just about manages to shake his head and wave a hand. This is all getting more than a bit weird, though, and he hands the flint to Gwaine before heading over to where Lancelot heaped the tack. He pulls out a bridle, running his hands over the leather and checking for wear. It's not an urgent task by any means; the stable boys keep on top of this kind of thing, and he'd double checked it before heading out anyway, but – it gives him an excuse to get away for a minute.

He clutches at a buckle and feels it bite into his palm. God, they all know. All this time he thought he'd been keeping it a secret, and it's leaking everywhere like a badly bandaged wound. In no time at all, it could have got to Arthur –  _Arthur – _ or worse, Uther. He's been living like everything is normal. Safe. He could have been arrested any day. 

He can't even remember what he did on his last day off, he thinks wildly. Probably slumped on his bed and caught up on sleep – but there's so much he's still not done in Camelot. So much he might never have got the chance to do. 

And Arthur. He's never told him. What he – how much he –

“Merlin?” A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, whirling and scrubbing a hand at his eyes.

“Yes?”

Leon smiles at him kindly. He picks up another bridle, going through the same motions, and Merlin looks back at his his own. It's Arthur's, or more accurately, Llamrei's. It has a little stitched dragon at the corner of the brow piece, and in his consternation he's tangled the reins. He pulls them back into place, fingertips skimming for frayed stitching or rusting buckles.

“I'm sorry, I overheard the conversation.” Merlin closes his eyes, fingers stilling and shoulder hunching, ready for the kiss of cold metal against his neck. Of course he overheard. Stupid. “I already knew,” Leon continues earnestly in an undertone, and Merlin huffs out a breath. “I overheard Uther and Gaius discussing it one evening in the council chamber.”

“Uther...?” he whispers.

“Not happy,” Leon admits with a wry smile. “But Gaius is his friend, and he knows if he acted against you, he would lose him.” That's not enough, Merlin thinks. Uther and sorcery – he'd never let a friendship, even an old one like Gaius', stand between him and a magical threat. “Of course, between you and me, I think he realises you must help keep Arthur safe. And I think he's more worried – if he set himself against you – about what Arthur would do.”

“Arthur?”

“He has a history of questioning Uther.” Not this time, thinks Merlin. Not after this. Not after years of betrayal. Arthur's had a lot of people betray him, and Merlin knows he's just his servant, but they're friends too. He doesn't think it's vanity, on his part, to imagine he might be the last straw.

“He's not sure of Arthur's loyalty if the other choice is you.”

That's... that's ridiculous. And he can't – he can't think about it. “Why didn't Gaius tell me?”

“Maybe he thought the threat of my father would keep you careful.”

Merlin freezes. The complete set. He should turn and look at Arthur, he should raise his gaze, he should take whatever is coming. But he can't. He's stone, immovable, because as long as he doesn’t look up he doesn't have to see the pain of betrayal bloom. The knights could have hoisted him up on the pyre, or run him out of town, and he'd have accepted it – as long as Arthur didn't hate him.

“Arthur,” he chokes out. The tears he'd thought he'd brushed away have welled up again, and his throat feels thick. What can he say? How can he apologise for this? For years – _years_ of lying.

“Merlin.” Arthur touches him lightly on the arm. Leon slips back to the other knights, and Merlin forces his head up. He meets blue staring back, and feels his eyes spilling over. He bites his lip, refusing to cry but helpless to stop the way tears fall, wetting his cheeks. And Arthur – Arthur looks concerned. His brow is furrowed – he's not reaching for his sword. He hasn't called the knights to surround Merlin. He doesn't even look surprised. “I haven't been knocked out _every_ time you save the day,” he says softly. His hand drifts up to Merlin's shoulder and squeezes.

“Right,” Merlin nods, using his cuff to scrub at his face and taking a few hitching breaths. Of course he wasn't. Because it's not Arthur that's the idiot after all. It's Merlin who's been in the dark this whole time.

He sets the bridle down carefully and re-covers the tack with a sheet to keep the dew off. He glances around their camp. Just... just get on with the job. Deal with... everything, later. The water is collected, the horses are seen to, but he can set out the bed rolls. He turns away to do just that, but Arthur follows him, catching him by the sleeve.

“Merlin.”

“Yes?”

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Arthur raises an eyebrow with a pointed nod behind Merlin, and he turns to see the pile of wood. Gwaine and Elyan still sit on the other side, as if a fire is lit and burning merrily. “Before we all freeze to death?” Arthur adds.

He looks normal, Merlin thinks. Like this is nothing. Like Merlin's whole world hasn't come crashing down and been built back up anew. Arthur smiles, and the smile works like it always does, sparking happiness within him too. Maybe... maybe this is good. Maybe here he can be himself. Not hidden away practising spells in his room, or peering round corners to save the day. But out in the open.

He raises his hand, glances at Arthur one last time, and lets his eyes glow gold. Fire leaps to the sky.

“Shit,” Gwaine leans back with a grin, lit orange by the flames. “Dial it down a bit, my eyebrows are my best feature.”

Merlin stutters, and the fire falls to a more manageable size.

“They take the attention away from your nose,” Elyan quips. The knights gather closer, holding out their chilled hands and damp boots.

“And the rubbish that comes out of your mouth,” Percival adds, rooting through one of the packs to find the provisions and cooking pots. Merlin gapes at their normal, everyday chatter. Hands nudge at his back, and he stumbles forward.

“Go on then.” Arthur grins at him.

“This is all a bit much,” Merlin admits, with a strangled, wet-sounding laugh.

“What, cooking dinner for seven?” Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Doesn't surprise me, you are the worse servant I've ever had.”

Merlin squeaks.

“Oh come off it, Merlin,” Arthur swings an arm around his shoulder, and it's warm, and Arthur is _touching_ him. He knows he's a sorcerer, and he watched him shoot fire from nothing, and he's still here. They all are. He swallows down more tears, of relief this time, and leans unconsciously into Arthur. “Like we'd stick you on a pyre for sorcery. We'd be laughed out of Camelot.”

Merlin unsticks his throat. “Seems half of Camelot would believe you,” he manages.

“Yeah, but that's the half that would never let us do it.”

“No?”

He's beginning to believe it's true. In all likelihood, it wouldn't matter anyway; he's got magic enough to escape before it ever got to that point, or he could freeze the flames, or conjure water to douse them. Knowing never stopped the dreams, though – the dreams that start with Arthur's face, betrayed and angry, and end with the smell of burning straw and pain licking at his feet, and Arthur in the crowd. Cold and hard, and turning away.

So different to this Arthur. Close enough to touch.

“No,” Arthur echoes gruffly. “Never. I'd never.”

Merlin snakes an arm between them. He'd never normally dare, but tonight is a night for possibilities; it's a night when Prince Arthur accepts him as a sorcerer, and so anything might happen. There's a thick air of unreality, and for all he knows this is a particularly vivid dream that he should take advantage of, because it will shimmer and fade in the morning light as Gaius bangs on his door. He might as well. All or nothing.

He settles his arm lightly around Arthur's waist, feels him twitch and then relax into the hold. They are still stood back from the other knights, and he grips a little more firmly as he twists and studies Arthur's expression. It is open and kind, and more than a little soft. It makes him wish they were back in Camelot, that the flickering light was candles burning low as he served Arthur his dinner -

Arthur sniffs questioningly, then looks sharply to the side. “You should go rescue the stew,” he says in alarm, drawing Merlin's eyes back towards the campfire.

“Wha- oh! Percival, no-” He disentangles himself and leaps across the clearing, grabbing the pan and hissing. He caught it just in time, just before they'd have had a charcoaled mess or nothing to eat. He hastily tips the stew into another pot, and shoves it at Lancelot to start serving. He winces and shakes his hand. The cool night air is bare relief on burned flesh.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, stepping up behind him and inspecting the injury. Merlin flushes at the way Arthur stands so close and holds his hand so carefully, tilting it slightly to get a better look. “Can you fix it?”

He can, he realises, and not just with the salve he keeps packed in his saddlebags. They all know. Arthur lets him go, but doesn't step back, and Merlin drags the fingers of his left hand over the reddening burn on his right. He sighs as the skin is made fresh and new and the pain melts away, and feels Arthur's answering breath caress his cheek. He flexes his fingers.

Gwaine laughs. “Merlin?” His head snaps up. “That could come in  _very_ useful.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by various Tumblr posts saying how ridiculous it is that Gaius shouts about Merlin's magic in the middle of Camelot... :D 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
